


Sigh No More

by reasonswhy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17279219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reasonswhy/pseuds/reasonswhy
Summary: The room is cold and quiet and smells like the Muggle Chinese restaurant that was down the street from the flat Emmeline shared with Lily right out of Hogwarts.Emmeline, Dorcas, Marlene, and Amelia, at the end.





	Sigh No More

**Author's Note:**

> A very long time ago, I wrote a short version of this for an LJ ficathon, and later pulled Marlene's piece out for a one-shot on ff.net. And now, here's this version. Title from the Mumford & Sons song.

**i.**

The room is cold and quiet and smells like the Muggle Chinese restaurant that was down the street from the flat Emmeline shared with Lily right out of Hogwarts.

They used to go there late at night and order more food than two girls could ever possibly eat. There, sitting in a bright yellow booth with her best friend, Emmeline felt normal again. They never talked about the war on those nights, not like they did at their flat or at Order meetings or during what felt like every other moment of every other day. Instead, they talked about what they wanted to do in the future, about hopes and dreams, about the quiet moments at Hogwarts that they missed the most. (Emmeline misses the library, misses the way she could curl up with a novel and live a thousand different lives, misses the way Lily would tease her— _“Sure you’re not a Ravenclaw, Em?”_ )

They stopped going at some point. Emmeline doesn’t remember when, exactly, but it was after Lily moved in with James and Emmeline moved across town and the Death Eaters’ attacks became the one constant in her life. She thinks of Lily’s laugh, clear and sweet, like chimes, and wishes that they’d made time for it, even as the world crumbled around them.

She wonders, with a touch of hysteria, whether she really is near the restaurant. It’s not like she has any idea where they’re keeping her. A warehouse turned prison, maybe, judging by what she can see of the room around her. It’s dark in here, although she’s not exactly sure how much of that is just her vision flickering in and out. She was unconscious when they dragged her in—she didn’t even see who captured her. (Well, she knows it was a Death Eater, but she’d at least like a name to assign her curses to.)

Whoever it was has left her alone, presumably to take care of another prisoner. No one is being held near her, otherwise she knows she’d hear the screams. She wonders whether they’ll be back for her body, wonders how long she’ll be crumpled on the cold, damp floor until they do.

She coughs, the taste of blood sharp and coppery in her mouth, and everything hurts. Her wrists strain against the rope, spelled to keep her from using any magic. She tried Apparating the minute she opened her eyes, for all the good it did her.

She hears footsteps and thinks—for one foolish, fleeting, glorious moment—that someone has come to rescue her. But the person passes her cell, headed on, she thinks, to yet another prisoner. She guesses there isn’t much of a point wasting more time with her.

The minutes trickle by, slowly, painfully.

She hears laughter and thinks—for one foolish, fleeting, glorious moment—of Lily and wind chimes and the lives she could have lived, the lives they _all_ could have lived. But the sound is high-pitched and cruel, and she has never felt more alone.

And then she hears nothing, save for the sound of her own labored breathing.  
  
No one is there to watch Emmeline die.

  
**ii.**  
  
Dorcas cried all through her own Sorting.

She hated Hogwarts’ tall ceilings, hated the ghosts floating by, hated the moving staircases and the talking portraits and the way nothing looked familiar. She wished her mother and her younger sister were there, and most of all, she wished she were tall and brave instead of scrawny and terrified.

The whole thing was horrible and embarrassing, and when she was placed in Gryffindor, no one seemed to think she belonged.

Dorcas spent the entirety of her first night at Hogwarts writing dramatic letters to her mother, asking how she could send her _only daughter in the entire world to such_ _a dreadful, horrible, awful place_. She meant to mail them in the morning, but before she could stumble her way through the castle and to find the Owlery, one of the girls in her year asked if she wanted to walk to their first class together. She had the lightest blonde hair and kind blue eyes and a knack for knowing just what to say.

Whispers still followed her down the hall for months— _Scaredy cat_ and _chicken_ and _watch out, Meadowes, someone might put a hat on your head—_ but she had her friends. Marley and Alice and even the Prewett brothers, for all the trouble they caused.

It became a joke in later years. Every Sorting, someone would bring it up, and Dorcas would gamely recreate her reaction. But after the ceremony, she would make a point to find any first years with tear-stained cheeks and offer what comfort she could. And when she went to her dorm on those nights, she would open her trunk and pull out the letters, the ones she wrote but never sent, and feel a spark of pride for an eleven-year-old who was brave in her own way.

And tonight—tonight, she doesn’t cry out or flinch once.

Tonight, she dares anyone to claim she never belonged in Gryffindor.  
  
This is what Dorcas thinks of in the space between life and death.  
  
  
**iii.**  
  
Marlene can’t hear anyone fighting or shouting or screaming, which means the Death Eaters are gone. She can’t hear her mother or her father or Jason, which means they are, too.

But she _can_ hear someone saying, “Don’t die on me, McKinnon.”

She’s stuck on her stomach, turned toward the wall, her arm twisted painfully beneath her—but she knows it’s Gideon Prewett. Marlene would know his voice anywhere.  
  
If Gideon’s here, it means the Order has finally arrived. _How nice of them,_ she thinks, _to join me._ She’d sent off her Patronus as soon as someone tripped the alarms she’d set up for her parents. She’d just gotten there for Jason’s birthday dinner. He’d turned thirteen today, home from Hogwarts for the winter holidays. The cake had been Ravenclaw blue.

“The mediwizards will be here soon.” Gideon’s voice again.

It means it’s too serious to Apparate her to St. Mungo’s without a mediwizard there to stabilize her. It means it’s not good, which she already knew. The curse she was hit with was a nasty bit of spellwork, and as talented as Gid is, she knows he can’t fix this himself.

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

Gideon’s a terrible liar. He always has been. Sometimes it was a good thing, like when she wanted to know what he was up to at Hogwarts. Sometimes, like when he was giving McGonagall an excuse as to why he and Marlene were out after curfew, it was not. (It turned out that, at ten to midnight, it wasn’t any better to claim they were helping Professor Sprout than to admit they’d been snogging in a broom closest.)

She wants to say something back, but her mouth doesn’t seem to be working right. Before she can consider that much more, there are gentle hands on her shoulders, turning her so she’s lying on her back. She doesn’t think you’re supposed to move someone when they’re injured—makes things worse and all—but she supposes it won’t make much of a difference in the end.

From this position, she can see that there’s blood on the ceiling. There’s blood _everywhere,_ actually. The walls, the sofa, the ugly beige carpet. It’s on Marlene, too—on her lips, eyelashes, hands, clothes—a bright red that’s turned her blonde hair a funny shade of pink. It can’t all be hers, can it?

Gideon kneels over her, finally coming into view. She hates the look on his face, panic and love and grief, and she wants to wake up from the hell they’ve been trapped in for what feels like forever now. 

She doesn’t want Gideon to remember her like this.

A few months ago, Marlene was the one who found Dorcas Meadowes’ body. She woke up Gideon with her screams, woke up half-convinced her throat would start bleeding. She kept hearing Dorcas say, _Do you know how long I waited for help? There was no one there to watch me die._

Marlene shudders, and she’s not sure if it’s from the pain or the memories.

“Eyes open, McKinnon.”

She hadn’t even realized she had them closed. She coughs, and she can feel the blood bubble through her parted lips. God, she wishes someone else had found her. She doesn’t want to haunt Gideon’s dreams, doesn’t want him to wonder what would have happened if he had gotten here sooner.

It wouldn’t have mattered. Her family was marked for death the minute the Death Eaters arrived. She’d taken down two, while her mother and father killed one each. And Jason, sweet Jason, who could tell you the origin of every charm known to man, had managed to Stupefy one. She’d felt a rush of pride that had turned to a scream of horror as Rookwood had killed her baby brother.

“ _Please,_ Mar.” Gideon’s hand is on her cheek; her blood is on her fingertips. “Hold on a little longer.”

She doesn’t have a little longer. They both know that. Her eyes slam shut, but she forces them open again so she can see every freckle on his face, see the scar on his cheek, a remnant of one of Fabian’s prank. Marlene wants to tell him that she loves him, but he has to know by now. It’s only ever been him.

“S’okay, Gid,” she manages finally.

He kisses her forehead gently, murmuring something she can’t quite understand.

 _At least he’ll make it,_ Marlene thinks, eyes closing again. _At least he’ll be safe._  
  
  
 **iv.**

Amelia’s not so much  _afraid_ to die as she is  _angry_  to die. She’d managed to make it this far and thought that maybe, just maybe, she would live to see the war through. She thought that maybe, just maybe, after all she’s seen, after all she’s lost, that she _deserved_ to.

At least she’d taken down three of the bastards before Voldemort stepped in to take care of her personally. _What an honor_ , she had thought dryly, when he had appeared in her home.  
  
But at least she knows it’s coming—the end of the war, she means. She never doubted that. Not really. Not when Edgar died, not when she realized she was the last of her old year from Ravenclaw, not when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be alive in the morning.

It would have been nice to have been able to stand amidst the wreckage and know that they had  _won_ , that it had been worth it. But someone else will get see victory take root, and that will have to be enough.

Amelia might not greet death with a smile, but the firm set of her jaw will have to do.


End file.
